Down Below
by Flitterly
Summary: Set some time after The Killing Joke. Barbara thinks about her "family", how her life has changed since she lost the use of her legs, and what flight had meant to her as a bat. (Republish of an old story from 2010.)


Don't own. I tried to steal the rights to Batman from DC comics, but got caught by Gotham's watchdogs.

I had a random bit of inspiration to write something about Barbara, so here it is. I have this unending need to try and think about how a character thinks and how they might be feeling. Beware: symbolic "flying". Enjoy.

o0o

 **Down Below**

Flight. Never in my life had I felt such a rush as I passed high above the streets, sliding like a spotlight over the deepest, darkest, most corrupt parts of the city. The wind in my hair was always enough to wash away the foulness that exudes from the dank alleyways, a foulness that seemed to encase the crime infested neighborhoods, containing them and capturing all creatures that would dwell in its wake. As I reached higher and higher, climbing the towering edifices of the city as I went, I would watch the sky unfurl like a map before me as I rose ever closer, the buildings drifting farther into the peripheral. The foreboding coldness of the world below would disappear. In a flash, I would feel the mitigation of all doubt. I would then begin to function on pure adrenaline, throwing caution to the wind and leaving myself at the mercy of my jumpline. Any meta with the ability to manipulate the gravity around them would agree that hooks and cables are no way to fly. Indeed, the freedom of true flight makes this look like nothing. Still, I know beggars can't be choosers, and I happen to be just fine with second best.

But of course, all good things have their own risks. In my case, I have reason to believe that I've always known what chances I was taking, but perhaps I didn't think of them enough. What I thought that I had learned and what I had truly learned in my younger years becomes a growing mystery as I engross myself in what I know now and what I need to find out for the future. Maybe in those days I felt distanced from the possibility of danger. Maybe I felt myself to be bulletproof at times.

If I had, at one time, believed myself to be invulnerable to the sting of a bullet, I quickly learned that I wasn't. Nothing teaches you that like staring down the barrel of a Colt Single Action Army. Or was it a revolver? No, I'm fairly certain it was some kind of pistol. Still, why would that man have an SAA? It was a western icon, so maybe he was trying to make a point or something. Or maybe dad watched too many westerns and I was just thinking of one. My memory of that night has grown foggy so I can't truly discern the accuracy each detail with utmost certainty. I don't know why an SAA would be the Joker's gun of choice, but is there really any point to applying logic to anything that man does?

After the bullet had severed my spine and left me paralyzed, I became obsessed with the Joker and I spent more time than ever before trying to learn about him. Survival of the bouts of depression that accompanied my lack of mobility relied on my keeping busy. I took to thinking deeply for long periods of time and gathering information for Bruce and the others. I have read and reread my case file over and over among dozens of others. Although my memory of that night is no longer clear, I know everything that was done to me as it is written. I prefer to sit wonder about the type of gun he used. I don't want to regain the memories of the…other things that took place. The knowledge of them is enough.

If somebody had come and told me back then, in the midst of flight and victory, that I would fall victim to the killing joke, I don't think I would have believed them. Sure, I might have listened to the possibility of a bad night, or maybe a minor injury or two. But the possibility of somebody like me-a full-fledged vigilante-being victimized seemed in many ways preposterous. I was always far from helpless. Everybody feels like they have the power to do emsomething,/em no matter how small, in almost any situation. For that reason, I don't think that people can easily believe in the notion of something so life changing happening in such a tiny instance of time, but it does. In a flash of lightning, in the blink of an eye, from the barrel of a gun, life can change in an instant. I suppose that would be why I think so much. When your world changes, you revision everything. You realign your ideals and try to reconcile everything that has happened in the new point of view that you find you can no longer shift from. It takes a long time to sort out so much information. Maybe that's why I space out so much.

Speaking of spacing… I suddenly realize that I have not spoken a word to anybody in the last twenty minutes. The people who had been standing around my seat by the wall had slowly gravitated into the crowd of others. As I sit watching, I see the people talking, drinking, dancing, and laughing. Bruce was invited to yet another social thrown for the sake of business. He rarely goes to these sorts of things anymore. They are too long and take up too much of the night. Most of his business is dealt with during the day, with all meetings and formal gatherings he attends taking place in the early hours of the morning and afternoon. The influx of "work" has grown recently. It must be the season. It's warm out again, and the midnight thugs are coming out of the woodwork from their long hibernation, buzzing about crime alley as they often did in the past. Stranger still, is that Bruce has brought myself as well as his birds to attend tonight. The host invited the families of investors to come along too. Since "playboy Bruce Wayne" is no longer the lonely childless bachelor he once was, he naturally had to bring his closest relations along. That's us.

I sip my water. I have been holding it for quite some time and it is no longer cold. I wish I could do something-emanything/em, really. I watch the couples spin around, clinging to each other for a slow song, and I wish that I too could dance again. I don't get depressed as much as I used to over my disabilities, but on days like today I feel useless and out of place just sitting here. I force myself not to recall myself wondering long ago if throwing myself down a flight of stairs or perhaps off of the top of Wayne Enterprises would help me fly again, if only once more. Life is too beautiful to give up on simply because I am lacking something that I once had.

Lost in more tragic thoughts of the past, I continue to scan the room of people. I see Timmy gazing over at me and I can tell by his stare that he has been watching for a while. Please don't worry about me too much, Tim. The boy's vision, now holding mine, walks over to me and smiles thoughtfully. He asks if I would like to go outside. I think for a moment, and then agree.

He pushes my chair around the premises and we watch the night sky in awe of its wonder. It never seemed so bright on a monitor from deep inside the cave or working down in Hell's main drag, but tonight the air is clear and there are no clouds keeping the moon and stars from us.

"Do you want to go home?" he asks quietly. "I'm sure Dick will take you." I'm sure he would, but I am comfortable right now. The night is quiet and still. We sit together and make small talk. I can't help but smile at Tim. He seems to have everything all together, being openly calm in the face of bad guys, clearly confident in his leadership skills, and sure in every decision he makes. But of course, that isn't always the case. Matters of family, friends, and intimacy are a whole other ball game for him. Sure, he looks fine on the outside, but for the longest time he appeared to be the most nervous kid I had ever seen when it came to family relationships. It was barely visible, but it was there. Just beneath the surface. I can excuse him for it, though. His family was not exactly what one would think of when warm memories of home come to mind. I sometimes wonder what chaotic things go on in his young mind. While I see myself as thinking analytically, and often assigning mechanical thought processes to Dick, Tim is more difficult to follow. He, like Bruce, seems to have an all encompassing realm of thoughts that dictate how he views the world. It makes him an open book for me in some respects, and in others still, a mystery.

I try to tell him to go back inside and have fun with the other guests, but be tells me he'd rather be here with me. I can't vouch for the truth in that, but I don't think he likes formal gatherings, anyway. I am thankful for the company. It's nice to have somebody who cares. I sit contentedly relishing in the comfort of the moment.

The two of us turn our heads at the sound of footsteps approaching. Dick is walking our way and I see the questioning look in his face. Dick is reckless and doesn't pay attention at times, but I know he is always watchful of "siblings". He joins us in the quiet of the evening and we soon begin to open up a bit more, laughing and joking like we did when we were kids, Tim joining in too on occasion. We smile. The night sky twinkles. How could I have ever believed there to be anything wrong with my world?

An hour or more passes. Bruce eventually finds us out here and beckons for us to head for home. We rush to meet him and go on our way, still behaving like playful ruffians in dresses and suits. He looks at us in a disapproving manner, but eventually gives into the pressure to conform and teases playfully. (This teasing reaching the limit of what is possible for Batman, which is extremely small, but for Bruce Wayne perhaps just a bit more.) He makes a wise crack or two at Dick's expense but then chooses to go quiet and enjoy us with little more than an amused look now and then. He calls Alfred and tells him we're on our way back home.

As a car, our mode of transportation for tonight, comes into view in the distance of the street, Dick begins to push Tim, nudging him and herding him in an annoying but whimsical fashion. I wonder to myself why his energy isn't spent for tonight. Sure, he could still get out and fight crime if he really needed to, but why expend more than he has to on his only night off? He continues to taunt the smaller boy who does his best to ignore his brother as Bruce looks away, not wanting to accept responsibility for the two of them. A small smile plays on his lips. He is looking away from the boys, so only I can see from where he is. At some point soon, Tim has had enough and begins to run down the street, confident that the older members of the groups will not want to follow so quickly after this taxing night of play. Noting the challenge, Dick looks to me for help.

"You started it," I tell him, "so you go ahead and finish it yourself."

"Nonsense," he says as he heads behind my chair, grabbing the handles and pushing at full speed after Tim. This is all a big game to him.

"I'm going to run you over," he calls out to Tim, laughing as we rush toward him. Tim looks back, surprised that he would do something like this. Tim wouldn't dare try such a thing as this. Dick would, though. He has known me for a long time, and he thinks he can get away with it. A bold fool, that man is, and I promise him to get revenge for the impromptu ride I am headed on, while knowing of course that he means nothing by it. I am in no real danger of harm and Dick won't actually try to ram Timmy with my chair, but the notion isn't exactly something anybody would put past him.

I suddenly lose myself in the sight of the sky rushing past me, the wind chewing at my tired frame, and the sound of the cars on the street. Although I am on the ground, I feel as though I have lost my connection with everything earthbound and I can envision the world from the end of my jumpline once again. Flight is nothing but a memory—something I shall never feel again. Or so I thought. Flight for Batgirl was just an illusion, a sweet fancy from the end of a cord, but nothing could replace that. As Oracle, I recognize that I could never really fly. I was just romanticizing my need for that feeling of invincibility where I could do anything or be anywhere and make a difference in the lives of others. I know now that I am still making a difference from behind the scenes, and for the first time I am at peace with my new role. I feel like it is enough for me.

I scarcely notice that we have stopped at the car and the boys—no, my family-is about ready to help me inside. In the past I had used my elevated journeys to release my feelings. My bottled up needs for closure, my loneliness without Dad, my lack of understanding, all coming out in a single leap from reality. But I can live without that. I have something better to rely on, now. No matter what, I will always be a Bat. The sky I once used to satisfy myself when everything was right or wrong has been torn away from me, but I am no longer alone. I still have people who can fly for me as I give aid from below. After all, what is a Bat flying solo? I can trust that I will never have to fear solitude again. I will always have somebody to help me muscle through all of my uncertainties, and I can trust that on some nights like tonight, one of my fellow creatures of the night may bring a piece of my sky back to me and I can feel at home again. Even if I must enjoy it from down below.

o0o

 **Notes:**

"Hell's main drag" refers to Crime Alley.

SAA = Single Action Army, also known as a Colt Peacemaker, Model P, or Colt 45. The gun from The Killing Joke that the Joker used TOTALLY looks like one, but I'm not 100 percent positive as to what kind of gun it was. It definitely looked like a western style revolver, though, so quite possibly one of these./p


End file.
